


Sing, Muse

by winterfell_in_ruins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Iliad AU, Sansa as Helen of Troy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfell_in_ruins/pseuds/winterfell_in_ruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The songs called her the face that launched a thousand ships. That she had been carried off by the evil Trojan prince and awaited rescue by her brave husband. Or that she had sacrificed everything to be with her true love, even the lives of both their people. Others, less kindly called her the foolish girl who started this mess of a war. That she had waited for a better offer than her husband could provide. Or even that she had caused the war simply out of spite, to cause death and destruction, because it wasn’t enough for her to be loved, she needed to be worshipped. None of the songs were true of course. </p><p>An AU with Sansa as Helen of Troy and Willas as Paris, and an exploration of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing, Muse

The songs called her the face that launched a thousand ships. That she had been carried off by the evil Trojan prince and awaited rescue by her brave husband. Or that she had sacrificed everything to be with her true love, even the lives of both their people. Others, less kindly called her the foolish girl who started this mess of a war. That she had waited for a better offer than her husband could provide. Or even that she had caused the war simply out of spite, to cause death and destruction, because it wasn’t enough for her to be loved, she needed to be worshipped. None of the songs were true of course. 

When she had married it had not been for love. There had been a contest, and child that she was; she had thought it a romantic, not terrifying way to choose a husband. Joffrey had won, and she had thought him brave and kind. It had been like a song, with the great heroes competing for her hand. And hadn’t he, the best of those there, been more suitable for her, the most beautiful woman in the world, than the others? Would she have been happy with Petyr Baelish with his clever eyes, on his tiny rocky island? Or would Sandor Clegane; with his rough words that didn’t match his kind actions have been the better choice? Fair-haired, green-eyed Joffrey had been the most beautiful, shouldn’t he have been a good person? Their life together should have been a happy one, the brave king and his beautiful wife, ruling kindly and fairly.

But it wasn’t and Sansa had realised her life was no longer like the songs the bards sang at the endless feasts she attended. Her husband was powerful, and she was Sansa of Sparta, and people came from far and wide to see her beauty. She sat inside and wove tapestries and played the role that was expected of her. The boredom and the loneliness were stifling. No one would sing of this Sansa. No one cared about another housewife, faithful and true to her husband. Later, much later, Sansa would hear of Baelish’s wife who waited for him, and laugh till she cried at the woman who had gotten fame out of doing her duty. That had never been the song they were destined to sing about Sansa.

And then the Trojan Prince Willas had arrived, with a kind smile and a crippled leg, and he proclaimed his love, and told her that they were destined to be together, against all the odds. Then suddenly her life was a song again, and they left that night, sneaking out of the palace. Sansa couldn’t help laughing, even as the black ships left everyone she knew behind. She could be Sansa of Troy and have love and happiness and laughter in her life. Later the songs would say that Aphrodite had promised her to Willas as a prize, that she had had no choice but to fall in love with him. She had felt under a spell those weeks on the journey, but the love she had felt was all her own.

Not long after that all hell had broken loose. The singers sang the long list of heroes who had come to fight, and Sansa had felt real fear for the first time. Willas had promised her that the Trojans and their allies would crush any opposition, that their love was so powerful; it would spur his father’s army on to victory. For a time that even seemed true. In the first years of the war it looked like the Trojans could win, despite the whispers she heard of the best of the Greeks, the fierce, swift-footed warrior who could not be killed. She and Willas were happy, and if his leg kept him from fighting often, that made her all the happier. Troy was a real home, and if the people were suspicious, Sansa was sure that they would soon warm to her

But that had been ten years ago, and still the war raged on, only matched in its ferocity, by the strength of the city’s desire for peace. But there would be no peace till Joffrey had his prize back; Sansa knew that better than any of the king’s counsellors, who muttered of treaties and exchanges. He would fight down to the last man if that were what it would take to get her back. Willas started to look at her with guilty eyes during the fifth year of the war, and any hope of her song being a happy one died with his love for her. She once again kept to her rooms, and her life in Troy became worse than it had been in Sparta. The reminders of the destruction she had caused were everywhere, and at night she reminded herself to never trust in love again. She prayed to Aphrodite to end her suffering. Would the war end if she died? At some point during the seventh year she began to hate the Trojans, though not half as much as she hated herself.

The Trojans looked at her like she was cold Death itself, come to take away their sons. And in a way she was. In the years since she had been here she had seen proud Mace broken with grief, and his fair wife age and wither. Even she had aged in the ten years, and soon another woman would be called the most beautiful. With Garlan dead, surely the fall of Troy was not far behind. Willas could not even look at her anymore, not when they had both caused his city so much pain. In truth, by now she was not sure why he had ever loved her, wanted her, a prize perhaps? They had been young and foolish, but years of cruel war had cured them of their delusions of love.

Now she felt certain that Willas had only ever taken her for her beauty and her fame. That was what others had wanted in the past. The most beautiful woman in the world . . . the words no longer seemed like a compliment, more like a curse. Hadn’t it worked in a way? People knew of Willas now, told stories of how the three most powerful goddesses had competed for his favour. She had seen what the so-called best of the Greeks had done to Garlan’s body, had watched as the proud hero’s body was dragged round and round the high walls of Troy. Something inside had gone cold, and the last of the hope she had been keeping for the city, which for a few short years had felt like home, left her.

Later, the songs sang of that day, and said that grey-eyed Athena had guided the Greek’s hand, and Apollo had been forced to abandon his favourite, Garlan. She was a footnote in all the songs, and though a part of her, a foolish childish part, still cared, she had also noticed something. All the heroes of the songs died or suffered. Maybe if she hadn’t wanted to be one so much, this all could have been avoided. Sansa sat in her room, which was now a prison (when had she become a hostage rather than an honoured guest?), and prayed for an end to the war, no longer caring who won. If that made her a bad person, she was finished caring about right and wrong.

It would almost be a relief when the Greeks broke Troy and she would go back to her sadness and her weaving. The song they would sing would be of the heroes, and she was no hero, she knew that now.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr under the same name, please come and find me. That's where I take prompts, and am happy to fill them at your request!
> 
> Please comment with what you thought! Kudos are also much appreciated.
> 
> The language here is meant to be deliberately using the patterns of the Iliad, so may look slightly strange, but hopefully gives the feeling I want to.


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